


How Three Continents Watson Got His Name

by Boton



Series: Guy Talk [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Backstory, Gen, John "Three Continents" Watson, Nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature."  - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four</p><p>John has hidden the nickname "Three Continents Watson" until the day Sherlock asked him about it.  How did John get his famous (and canon-inspired) nickname?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Three Continents Watson Got His Name

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.
> 
> The Arthur Conan Doyle quote listed in the summary has been altered slightly to be uttered by John. The original quote is said by John Watson in "The Sign of Four" in reference to Mary Morstan.
> 
> This story takes place sometime after "A Study in Pink."
> 
> Rated T for references to John's history with women.

The tumblers in the lock to 221 Baker Street clicked alarmingly loudly as John turned his key early on Sunday morning. He had been living there only a few months, and he wasn’t keen on letting his new landlady – or his new flatmate – know just how successful his date had been the night before.

  
He made it in the door and up the stairs to the landing outside 221B without causing Mrs. Hudson to stir, although that was probably down as much to the effects of her herbal soother as it was to John’s stealth. But, before he could creep up the second set of stairs to his own room, he saw Sherlock’s lanky form move into the lounge from the kitchen, wearing his safety goggles and holding an Erlenmeyer flask. The former he pushed up onto his forehead as he said, “Ah, John, I see you’ve made it home. I take it your date went well then?”

  
John sighed in both embarrassment and defeat. Although John didn’t yet know Sherlock very well, the few conversations they had had about dating had made it clear that Sherlock had very little use for romantic relationships and may, in fact, be celibate. One thing was sure: he didn’t seem like the kind of bloke who would relish telling stories about the previous night’s exploits.

  
“Um, yeah, it was fine. She’s a lovely woman.”

  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “A lovely woman who you had intercourse with and plan to never see again,” he added.

  
“I might do,” John stammered, confronted with the truth. “I haven’t decided yet. And why is it any of your...” he began to say heatedly.

  
Sherlock cut him off. “No matter. This letter came for you while you were out. Looks to be an invitation to some sort of reunion of your RAMC unit.”

  
John took the envelope and opened it, sliding out a colorful, homemade invitation that indeed asked him to a get-together for his old unit. “You’re right, of course, but how did you get that?” he said with one part resignation and one part curiosity.

  
“Simple, really,” Sherlock said, clearly pleased to be asked. “The envelope is a non-standard size, square, so likely a card or an invitation of some sort. The handwriting is barely legible, which would correlate with a job in the medical profession. The envelope is addressed to you using “Captain,” which obviously indicates someone who knew you from your military days. Balance of probability: an invitation to a unit reunion of some sort.”

  
John nodded. “Amazing.” He was getting used to Sherlock’s impromptu deductions, and he was also growing accustomed to the fact that the detective always needed to hear a little bragging at the end, a bit like a puppy expecting a treat at the completion of a trick. And at least Sherlock had refrained from mentioning…

  
“Just one thing I couldn’t work out,” Sherlock said. John cringed.

  
“The envelope refers to you as Captain John ‘Three Continents’ Watson. What does ‘Three Continents’ refer to?”

  
John thought quickly. “It’s just a nickname. My duty tour took me to three different continents, so that’s what they called me,” he said, rather pleased with his ability to think on his feet.

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly, John. Nicknames generally poke fun at some aspect of a person’s personality or appearance, or a unique aspect of their past. Since it is a near certainty that several other members of your unit had also set foot on three continents, especially given the strategic location of Afghanistan that would give easy access to Europe, Asia, and Africa, it is very unlikely that you would be singled out for this accolade. Therefore, this must refer to some other aspect of your personality. Given that your appearance is generally unremarkable –"

  
“Oi! Watch it, mate!” John interjected.

  
“ – it must refer to some aspect of your behavior or personality. And given the propensity for military units to unite over bawdy jokes, I would guess it refers to something sexual. So, are you going to tell me why you are called ‘Three Continents,’ or am I going to have to do more extensive research?”

  
John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was kidding or not, but visions of texts to his old army buddies started to flit in front of his face. Sighing, he said, “OK, have a seat.”

***  
 _Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, 2006_

“Watson! Where were you last night?”

  
John turned to his buddies as he entered the barracks. He had just made it back in time from leave, and he was eager to grab a shower and some shut-eye in a real bunk before they headed into action.

  
“It’s Watson,” another man said. “He pulled, you know he did. Even in this backwater, that idiot managed to pull.”

  
John grinned. “’Pull’ is such an ugly term, gentlemen. I happened to spend the evening in the company of one of the finest ladies I have ever met.”

  
“So, don’t be stingy with the details,” said another of John’s compatriots.

It was clear that he wasn’t going to get away without telling some of his exploits, and John was feeling effusive. He sat down in the television area, quickly attracting a small crowd of soldiers eager for the company of the opposite sex, if only vicariously.

  
“My friends, in my experience of women, which extends over many nations and continents, I have never met a woman who was more beautiful, more refined, and more sensitive,” John began to expound.

  
“Wait, wait,” one of the men said. “Many nations and continents? You’re full of it, Watson. Pictures or it didn’t happen.”

  
“What, of last night?” John said. “I don’t gather photographic evidence to prove I’ve had sex.”

  
“No, of all of ‘em. And if you don’t have pictures, we want names, we want cities, and we want countries. Let’s see just how many nations and continents we’re talking about.”

  
Soon, the romantic tales of the prior evening were forgotten as the men found an old world map and rolled it out on the table. Someone pulled out a Sharpie and prepared to write.

  
“Fine, fine,” John said, not knowing whether to be humiliated or to secretly enjoy the game.

  
“I guess England is a given,” said the man with the Sharpie, placing an X over the country.”

  
“Yes, England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland,” John began, stopped short as his compatriots asked for names, towns, and stories.

  
An hour later, the map was annotated with a number of Xs as the group kept pouring over it.

  
“What the heck is Ceylon?” one asked.

  
“Sri Lanka,” John replied. “Doesn’t matter; I’ve never known any women either from or in Sri Lanka.”

  
“What was the deal with Boston again?” another chimed in.

  
“Medical conference,” John said.

  
“Does Luxembourg even count? It’s so small,” still another said, jabbing a finger at the middle of the map.

  
“Of course it does,” said one of John’s friends, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder. “Watson here is proof that it’s not the size that counts, it’s what you do with it.”

  
“Oi!” John protested. “Watch it, or we’ll start filling in a map for you and see how you fair.”

  
“Well, looks like your experience is centered mainly around the United Kingdom, with some brief forays into expected areas of Europe,” another friend concluded. “And I don’t know if three continents counts as ‘many,’ but, honestly, that’s more continents than I’ve got.”

  
“Three Continents Watson,” another man murmured as the group started to stand, rolling the map.

  
“Oi,” John said, “I don’t know if I want to start being known as…”

  
“Three Continents Watson,” another said. “You’re stuck, mate.”

***

“As I expected,” Sherlock said, looking out from his chair over steepled fingers. “A group of highly-trained doctors and military personnel took the opportunity to trivialize a personal activity and turn it into a puerile nickname.”

  
“Yeah, pretty silly, isn’t it,” John said, getting up to head for the shower. As he did, Sherlock’s phone chimed, and the detective looked down to read the message.

  
“Yes. And hurry with that shower, John. Lestrade just texted. A body has been found in one of the animal environments at the London Zoo. The body is unmarked, and security cameras show no activity of any kind overnight,” Sherlock said, still reading from his phone. Looking up to catch John’s eye, he said with just the barest twinkle, “For a case like this, I surely need the help of Three Continents Watson.”


End file.
